


This Old House

by theSilentPause



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Mickey is not in jail, Moving On, Post-Season/Series 05, Reunion, Season 6 doesn't exist, Slow Build, Slow Burn, dealing with breakup, very very slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSilentPause/pseuds/theSilentPause
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks after the breakup Mickey wakes up from the drunken stupor and slowly starts to clean the house. Because, in the end, this house is the only thing that stayed with him. Everyone with working legs walked out on him anyway.</p><p>And ironically it's one of the suitcases Ian had stolen, that leads him to a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting this after I accidently got it deleted. Sorry for the confusion. Added some more bit to the chapter.

Chapter 1. **Trash**

 

 

 

Mickey Milkovich woke up to the glaring sunlight pouring down on him through the window. His first instinct was to close his eyes shut tight and sheild his face with the raise of his hand.

_Where's the goddamn curtains?_

He squinting opened his eyes again to look around, and there they were, the sorry excuse of the curtains fallen off on the floor in heaps.

Mickey stared blankly at the dusty pile of fabric, with hazy memories of last night slowly surfacing up in his brain. He had been, of course, wasted shitless, no diffrent to any other nights these past few weeks.

He remembered stumbling into his room to have a proper sleep on his bed for once. This recently formed habit of sleeping on the living room floor, drunk off his ass, had started showing effects on his back.

He was determined to get on his bed before he got too drunk to walk. Not that he was walking alright. He was practically swaying all over. Then he tripped on some random shits and reached out for anything that would stop him from falling, not that it worked much at all.

And what he seemed to clutch at for dear life was those damn curtains.

_All right. Whatever._

Mickey got up and went to the bathroom joining his room. Dirty rotten smelly bathroom. He couldn't even remember when was the last time this bathroom got any proper scrubbing. A few years ago maybe? Should be more than that. 

He mindlessly did some vague memory tracking while peeing into the toilet. Oh, no, wait a minute. It was actually far more recent. Last summer when Ian Gallagher was still willing to play house with him and Svetlana and......Yev.....

  
_Do you have a problem with your boyfriend cleaning the bathtub to wash your son in?_

  
Mickey splashed water onto his face and gargled the mouth. He hadn't noticed it but his throat had been so dry a few drops of water felt like a thunder to a parched land. He started to choke on the water and the eyes instantly glazed over.

After the cough and tears subsided he washed his face. And then he suddenly felt wide awake. Too awake for his liking. Too awake to get back to sleep.

He passed through his messy-as-hell room to kitchen to get the coffee going, with his eyes trained down on the floor not to trip over something again.

  
When he walked into the living room, under the broad sober daylight, he realized the first time in weeks the pitiful state his house had fallen in.

It was literally a dumpster; a junk yard. He'd been breathing, eating, drinking, sleeping in fucking dumpster.

  
He'd been living in the dumpster like the trash himself.

 

 

\------------------------------------

 

 

He started with the living room. He briefly considered starting with his own room but he knew he had so many stuffs needed to be sorted off in there. So many shits that were not his.

And he also didn't want to tackle what seemed to be the most nuisance part just yet: Deciding what to keep and what to lose.

He just wanted it to be about throwing all away.

When Mickey first found the garbage-yard-level mess he'd made his house into (not that the Milkovich house was ever once NOT messy but it was so far beyond the usual tolerance limit even he wondered how he survived in here for so long) his immediate thought was RUN.

_Let's get the hell out of here and never come back._

But, strangely, in the little corner of his mind it didn't feel right. It just wasn't right. He didn't really want to run. It felt so much like, well, running. Felt so much like accepting defeat even before a fight. A Milkovich didn't back down from a fight. Mickey Milkovich simply didn't do that.

Besides, at the end of the day, this house was the only thing that stayed with him, kept him in. Everyone with working legs walked out on him anyway.

If he, too, deserted this house, there was a great possiblilty it would become a squat for the homeless or druggies or all kinds of bums out there. He didn't want that to happen to the house he lived his entire life. He might have turned the house into dumpster for the time being, but hell he was gonna let happen worse.

Gotta stay with what stayed with you at hard times, right? It's a common decency, right?

_Yeah, well. That son of a bitch didn't fucking know that._

The same son of a bitch (Mickey snorted at the literal meaning of word. Fuck that _bitch!_ ) who had dared to preach him about civic pride or some shit. _What a fucking hypocrite._ Mickey laughed.

Sneer and derision was the type of laugh Mickey knew well. Anger and resentment always fueled his blood. With the sudden charge of energy, he proceded in mad pace to get rid of all the rubbish piled on his living room floor.

But the thoughts, these tiny little niggling thoughts, didn't leave his mind all along. What had he done so wrong? What exactly was that made him fail? How fucking much was he lacking? Why was his best still not enough? What more should he have done? How much more should he have tried....

...to make Ian stay...... or at least ...... care?

As far as he knew, Ian didn't even care Mickey was being chased shot at by fucking Sammi. He didn't even care to check on Mickey if he was all right, which was hurting the most.

How could he not care? How fucking possible was it that he didn't care?

When he went outside to throw away the last one of dozen garbage bags filled from the living room alone, it finally dawned on him. When people toss out the trashes, they don't care what's going to happen to them afterwards.

They just want them out of their properties. They just want them gone.

No wonder Ian couldn't care less.

 

 

 

\--------------------------------

 

 

 

Mickey frantically chucked most of shits lying around his room into the garbage bags.

Not only Ian's stuffs were subjected to discarding frenzy. He didn't even stop for a moment to identify what was his or not and what had some good use in the future or didn't. He just about dumped everything that touched his hands in plastic bags.

He knew he should feel bad about throwing Ian's stuffs. But didn't Ian already have enough time to claim them back? If Ian or his siblings hadn't come by to pick up his shits for the last seven weeks, odds were they never would because he didn't really need them after all, Mickey thought, and he should never gonna get them back because Mickey ain't offering any delivery service.

He couldn't call Ian to inform either. The phone calls simply didn't get through. They never failed to get abruptly diverted to voicemail at single ring nor Ian ever once replied to Mickey's texts, be it pleading, angry, pleading, drunken cursing or pleading.

It was pretty obvious by now that Ian had blocked him. Purely a waste of time no matter how many messages he'd left. They didn't reach Ian's phone.

_You want me gone so bad, huh? Fine. I want your shits outta my house, too._

The more his room was cleared up, the more he felt free. He felt light. He felt cleansed. He felt like huge load was lifted off his shoulders. Mickey couldn't help but laugh at the irony that, in the end, what really made him free was getting rid of any pitiful remains of what Ian and he had.

Then something in Mickey went off. Something hot, heavy, wet and downright explosive. He kicked the garbage bags hard severtal times which resulted in tearing them off and spilling all the contents out. All day's work for naught.

In the raging spur of the moment, Mickey also lunged at the walls and took down all the dog-eared posters and yellowed drawings off.

He hadn't planned to go this overboard with the cleaning shit, but whatever happened happened.

For a while Mickey just stared dumbfounded around the now bare walls. Without anything to hide behind, the walls sported too many more holes and cracks than he had vaguely imagined.

Hiding was nothing more than hiding. Putting up a front could only do so much. It could never make the damages disappear.

Mickey realized he was crying.

 

That was his life for almost a week, filling up and disposing of garbage bags, emptying his house out of unwanted past remnants; exorcising the ghosts.

The end of that week saw Mickey go over his room again to sort out and pack Ian's stuffs, the process interrupted more than once by bouts of sobbing and screaming sessions.

it was one of the hardest things, Mickey thought to himself, he'd ever done. Considering the endless supply of bullshit he had to deal with all his life it really was saying something.

The only conscious excuse for Mickey going through with this was that he didn't want to give Ian any more reason to pat himself on the back breaking up with Mickey was a good idea.

He ground his teeth at the image. He felt an hot urge, yet again, to make use of Ian's tightly packed duffel bag as a target practice but quickly thought better of it.

Mickey didn't want anyone to think of him as a pathetic idiot torn apart from the breakup. And certainly not the spiteful bitch who would trash the ex's shit. Mickey Milkovich knew better than that.

Mickey would drop Ian's shits at the Alibi for Kev to pass onto Fiona, holding his head high. And he would go on with his life as if nothing happened.

 

If Mickey felt like he just couldn't stand the idea of throwing all the dear memories carelessly away to waste, he didn't admit it to himself.

 

 

 

 

============

 

 

 

And then "it" all started with one of the stolen suitcases from Ian's airport heist.

Most of the loots have gone by now, but there still remained a couple of leftovers: valueless enough to escape several hot pawn rushes and hyena feasts by then-residents and visitors of Milkovich household.

In fact these selective few weren't even properly unpacked. The suitcases were opened once, immediately shut again because their contents didn't really hold any value, and had never seen the light of day since. They were typical cases of unnecessarily neat packs of useless shit and, with their neatness, managed to avoid Mickey's cleaning spree till the very last moment. (Most of the stray clothing hanging haphazardly around were first to go.)

  
And when, on the verge of stepping up to do more than just trash-dumping, Mickey was inspecting the living room and kitchen to decide what also should get lost, finally the forlorn suitcase standing in the far corner caught Mickey's eyes.

 

 

 

\------------------------

 

 

 

  
What made him change his mind from just throwing it away he didn't know. Maybe the battered state? The chipped and peeled-off once shiny deep red surface? Whatever that was something prompted him to click it open.

There weren't much in it. Some faded T-shirts and equally faded jeans; a light grey dress shirt and dark grey dress pants; several pairs of socks and boxers; a magnum-sized condom box with several packets missing; basic toiletries for men; a really really old-looking leather bound note book. Not much else.

So Mickey now knew the owner of this suitcase was a man, quite a tall and fit man if assumed from his clothes, with a magnum sized dick.

Mickey would've been lying if he'd denied the dick part sort of piqued interest. He opened the note book and instantly a zip close vinyl envelope fell out.

Picking up the envelope off floor, he found it was full of low-quality print-out photos and quick small sketches of someone's yard.

Mickey flipped through the notebook fast and threw it nonchalantly back into the luggage. It landed with the cover open.

Nothing interesting seemed written in there. Mickey had better things to do than decipher somebody's horrible chicken scratch anyway, now that he had one more information about this guy: his handwriting was one of the shittiest Mickey had ever seen.

Mickey was closing the lid on the suitcase when he found it. He didn't know why he hadn't noticed but there were something scribbled on the inside front cover. It was far better writing than anything written inside the book. Mickey was impressed.

_"Hi, I'm Ryder Owens and thank you for not throwing this away just yet. I know it looks like garbage, in some way it is! But someone's trash can be another person's treasure, right? Which means this dirty old notebook is of great importance to me. If you happened to pick it up wherever you were passing through, please contact me. I will thank you profusely. I will reward generously. I will do anything whatever I can to thank you appropriately. PLEASE CALL. (312) 593-1738."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. You're not alone

Chapter 2. **You're not alone**

 

 

 

"Fuck!"

Mickey was vacuuming Svetlana (and Yev's) room when the deafening roar of motor abruptly stopped. At first he thought that good ole 90's relic, with mind of its own, sucked the cord in when it's supposed to be stretched out, eventually pulling the plug off.

But unfortunately, that was not the case.

"Fucking fuck! FUCK!!"

Mickey had never been the one for cleaning; he didn't like cleaning after other people. Hell, he didn't even like cleaning after himself. Then why was he vacuuming (God forbid!) Svetlana's room of all places? Did he really think if he made the house a bit more livable, less children hazardous, she would bring Yev back with her? How pathetic was that? It wasn't meant to happen. Even the machine knew for godssake. Quite a smart fucker, that one.

However, when he found out it was still plugged in intact and the vacuum refused to resume working no matter how long he waited, Mickey changed his opinion about the Hoover; it was dead. Small miracle the grandpa was still being put into use in the first place.

And later in the day, or more like early evening, he realized it wasn't a broken vacuum cleaner problem. It was an electricity-cutoff-due-to-unpaid-bills problem.

Handling the bills had been mostly Mickey's responsibility since he was fifteen, right after his mother passed away, and he always made sure to get them taken care of no matter what.

The series of fuck-ups he inflicted on himself this year.

 

 

 

\-----------------------

 

 

 

Mickey was lying on the couch thinking. Not much else to do, to be honest, in the dark. Except for some dim street bulbs and occasional car lights flickering by, it was just a big silent darkness that surrounded him.

He bravely concluded it was not that hard to live without electricity. Darkness was supposed to last half amount of a day anyway, which he was more than willing to spend sleeping. The eyes easily adapted to the darkness in the matter of minutes; He could walk around without much problems if he had to. And there was virtually nothing in fridge he had to worry about. As for drinks, it was already well into winter so he could always cool them down in some stone cold corners in the house, thanks to uneven heating. Mickey even had stopped watching TV during the last few weeks, feeling more and more alienated from all those two-dimensional people on the screen. The laughs, the noises and all those vibrant displays of emotions did nothing but irritated him.

Charging the phone, well, it could've been a big problem if Mickey had been still actively _working_ : Rub-n-tug was finished long time ago; Drug dealing was not exactly their business anymore. Milkoviches had been slowly but steadily crowded out from the scene over the years; Scamming needed some planning and ground works, but he couldn't muster up the energy for it quite a while. (Last time he checked it did nothing but landing his mug on the flyer; the drawing was shit by the way.) 

And he certainly didn't even remember when was the last time someone _paid_ him for a beatdown.

Milkoviches lacked the guidance and resources. They needed to set the new path if they wanted to keep their "family refutation" afloat; Terry's days were long gone and his ways were basically done.

Just thinking about all these made him feel tired, so helpless. He knew he wasn't up for any of those shits anymore. What he was expected to think he could do and what he really thought he could do. He knew enough to tell the difference.

Maybe Mickey wasn't meant to be a cold-headed criminal after all. Maybe that's why he was so unnecessarily shaken up after a _mere_ breakup. Maybe that's why he couldn't recall much at all what he'd been doing after that fucking day.

Everything was hazy.

He drank a lot and slept a lot, that's for sure. He snorted a few lines and popped some pills when he found small leftover stashes in Iggy's room, but was it some bad shit (he threw up repeatedly and suffered  from intense nightmare that night; splitting headache next morning. There was a reason Iggy even had leftovers) he didn't look to chase for more.

In fact, He barely left the house other than for ciggies and booze only when absolutely necessary, which he made sure the trip to be real quick. At some point he went without smokes for two days in a row not wanting to set a single foot outside.

Little did he know this house had turned into his personal prison.

The personal prison where he drank away most of his saved-up cash that was supposed to be spent for due bills.

He was so pathetic.

 

 

 

\-----------------------------------

 

 

 

Came the morning, Mickey was greatly relieved to find the water and heat not cut off yet. And their gas water heater still produced hot water but that most certainly wouldn't last very long.

He gathered up all the money left and counted. Still quite a bit short to cover both. But he thought he could manage. If needed, he was determined to go without one of them (he'd have to choose) for a few days till he could come up with the money.

Thank God he didn't have to worry about the rent. Bless his dead mother for her lifetime of patience to pay off the loan. Bless Terry for the ONE good thing he ever managed to get done for his family. (He probably did it for himself though)

He regarded the gun cabinet solemnly. _The only thing that would do. The only things left in this house worth some bucks._ Couple of'em missing wouldn't hurt. Terry wasn't supposed to come back home in a few years—to no one's surprise he did some stupid shit as soon as he was tossed back in the can. Even when he returns he would never tell. Iggy though. Iggy might notice. But where was he now? Where the friggin' hell was everybody now?

He unlocked the cabinet but hesitated for a while. Lately they weren't doing so good with the gun trade either. Shit. Why was everything they had fucking falling apart? It had been gradually happening, the slow and steady decline of the Milkoviches, the bona fide Southside crime family—what Terry liked to envision themselves, the title Terry so wanted for them. But Mickey always knew that was not how it really was. They were just a pack of hoodrats at the very bottom end of Chicago crime food chain, struggling to get by day to day.

Never had been the one to get easily illusioned even if he tried, except that one time. And look what happened to him. Look how it ended.

Mickey locked the doors with tentative hands, turned around and leant his back against the glass doors. He knew the amount of money he could get with the guns there. Would have to pay far more when they wanted them back. 

He decided to shower first, then he would think. No, he should take a bath, because he didn't know how much longer he could have the water.

 

 

 

\----------------

 

 

 

Mickey got out of the bath feeling much better than he did in days, but his mood promptly went downhills as he found there were hardly any clean towels nor clothes left. Almost everything not thrown out had been subjected to waiting in Purgatory, to be washed clean. He should have done the laundry immediately. _Goddamnit._ Now he had to do the washing with his own hands, as soon as he could, again, with the possible water situation and all.

He was rummaging through the laundry hamper with only a towel around his hips, still dripping wet, when the front door suddenly opened. Mickey instinctively pulled close the wheeled suitcase nearby (suitcase? oh!) to shield himself just in case and reached for the Glock on the table.

"Yo! Mick-! Mickey? Anybody home?"

It was Iggy coming in through the entryway. Mickey shook his head and put the gun back down.

"Oh, there you are," Iggy walked up to him smiling, "Nice to see you awake for a change, bro."

"The fuck you yapping about?" Mickey snapped.

"You know, last time I came by you were out cold, man."

Mickey's eyebrows shot up high.

"'Course you don't remember." Iggy's playful giggle dissipated as Mickey kept on his silent staring.

"When was that?" Iggy seemed to think for a while with the seriousness of really doing the thinking.

"Like, two weeks ago? To pick up my stuff?"

Mickey tilted his head in disbelief but said nothing. Some kind of emotion sprung up on Iggy's face and he started rambling.

"Gee, man, I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Mickey asked with the voice more tinged with baffled surprise than annoyance. Milkoviches didn't say sorry to each other.

"Shoulda stayed home when you were so—"

"Ow, fuck the fuck off," Mickey dismissed Iggy's awkward attempt at apology with wild hand gestures. He headed for his room. Had to find something wearable. Being almost naked dripping wet in the middle of this weather, albeit inside the house, was not a good idea. Got goosebumps all over already. To top it off a mad bout of sneezing fits struck Mickey along with the cold shudder down the back.

"So, where've you been all this time?"

Mickey asked sniffling as if averting the topic could shake him out of sneezing.

"Rita's place."

"Who the fuck is Rita?"

"My now ex."

Mickey stopped in his track and glanced back at his brother who, in the matter of minutes, seemed sizably deflated like a sad stray balloon. He huffed a cough not knowing what to say. Then he noticed some red smudge in the line of his sight. He went ahead to grab the old red suitcase that could have shielded him from the possible intruder's shootout. (It didn't happen)

Some of the clothes in there were clean enough if he remembered correctly. Could be wrong though. 

 

 

 

 

Mickey quickly dressed in crispy new T-shirt that said _Keep Calm and Let The Owens Take Over_ on the front and _Owens Landscaping, Inc._ at the back. (the luggage had two of them) He wore his brown knit sweater over it and old jeans that mysteriously reappeared in his closet after not being seen for almost two years. He didn't feel good about having to borrow a pair of clean boxers and socks from the guy he didn't even know. But what could he do? Going out commando in this weather?

"Yo, shithead. Why the fuck remote not working?" Iggy hollered from the living room.

"Is it only remote that's not working?"

"What?"

"Never mind," Mickey picked up Ian's duffel bag from the corner, which presence bugging the hell out of him since how long. Today would be the day, he decided.

"You fucking off somewhere?" Iggy was standing at Mickey's door, frowning deeply at the bag and the suitcase on the floor. Besides Mickey was just slipping on the winter coat. _So not suspicious._

"Not going anywhere," His brother didn't seem to buy it though, "Just Alibi. To drop this."

"What's in the bag?" And Mickey flatly ignored the question.

"Is that Gallagher's?"

_Did he really have to ask that?_

"Yeah," Mickey answered stepping in his shoes.

"What you gotta do delivery for? Just fucking throw it away, dude." Iggy snorted.

"Why? to make myself look like a vengeful bitch? Fuck no." Mickey hated that his voice came out louder and higher than he'd have liked, which probably prompted Iggy to say, "You want me to do that for you?"

For a while, Mickey was tempted. Really tempted.

"Nah," he shook his head finally, "I got this."

"You sure about that?" The kind of question that can set even the surest people off into doubting mode. Mickey wasn't an exception.

"Hey, let me," Iggy almost snatched the bag from Mickey's suddenly limp grasp, "Was going to Alibi anyway."

"Really?"

"Yeah, TV not working. No beer in fridge. The fuck should I do here?" The older brother that scarily managed to look like a real older brother for one second somehow reverted back to his usual self. "Anyway, what do we do about the TV?"

Mickey just had to laugh.

"You got some bucks?"

"How much?"

"Couple of hundreds?"

"To _buy_ a new TV?!"

"The bills, idiot." Mickey answered winding the scarf around his neck.

If they were in a cartoon, that would've been the precise moment the light bulb over Iggy's head switched on.

He pulled out a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, "Not much," he produced some twenties and tens and handed them to Mickey. Mickey did the quick counting in his head. That wasn't enough for all the bills but would help nonetheless.

"You still have that phone charger shit, you know, you can carry around?" Mickey asked walking out to the living room, Iggy tailing closely behind. 

"Portable power pack?"

"Yeah, that or whaever."

Iggy picked up and zip opened his backpack on the floor at the foot of the couch, digging until he found it.

 

 

 

\-------------------------------

 

 

 

"Fuck, this is heavy. Gallagher's a fucking hoarder," Iggy said locking the front door.

"Don't ever zip down the bag. Had a hard time closing it."

Mickey lit the cigarette on his lips. The perk of having someone else at home with him; He didn't need to fret about venturing outside when running low on cigs. No, that was not all. Not even close after the lonely claustrophobic weeks Mickey had.

The chilly winter air felt fresh on his face. Surprisingly, it felt good to be outside .

"Fucking exes. At least I don't have to deal with Rita's shit. Thank fuck," Iggy grumbled and Mickey guessed the feeling could be mutual the other way around.

"How many exes you got?"

"Can't count with my both hands," They both laughed; Mickey, harder. Iggy glanced sideways at his brother and tentatively started to speak, "Look, Mick. they all come and go. Breakup happens all the time. 'S not a big deal. After a while you don't even remember who they were with you. When you bump into them months after, you're like, _'What the hell did I see in that bitch?'_ "

"You don't think they'd feel exactly same about you?" Even his own words cut deep like a knife in his guts.

"Who cares? The deal is, they're not in my life anymore."

Mickey threw the cigarette butt on the porch and squashed with his foot, "Gotta get going. Should get the shit done before they close up," Then he peered down at the duffel bag for a moment.

It was really over. He made sure not a single Ian-related thing left in the house; Everything's cleared. He had to accept that part of his life was all over. It had been a slow process for last 8 weeks to get really acquainted with the idea, but this moment, this very moment was the first shovel of dirt on the coffin.

With the familiar pain surging through his insides, he thought he might've been tearing up yet again if he was still all alone. But he wasn't now. Mickey Milkovich didn't cry in front of an audience. No fucking way. Mickey smirked at his brother, shaking out another cigarette from the pack.

"Don't fall asleep on the bar counter. You'd fucking want to save some sleep for the night."

Iggy flipped him off and walked away towards Alibi. Did he really get what Mickey meant? It didn't matter because he eventually would when the night falls.

Or maybe, he'd have to deal with the electiricity first. If it were only him, he could manage more days without it, but you never know with Iggy. Mickey didn't want his brother to set the house on fire with candles, or break his neck fumbling in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. Hope I could come up with a weekly posting schedule. 
> 
> Any kind of response is appreciated, but please be kind ;) (So nervous right now)


	3. The Lost and Found

chapter 3 **The Lost and Found**

 

 

 

Mickey stared into the window and scanned the crowd at the small hole-in-the-wall coffee place. Three tables out of seven were occupied. A young couple smiling nose to nose; A middle-aged douchebag talking rapidly to his phone; a homeless-looking dude typing away into his Macbook. The Owens guy hadn't arrived yet.

Thanks to the free wifi and Iggy's portable phone charger that brought his phone back alive, he'd managed to google the "Owens Landscaping", while waiting in queue at the bank, enough to find the address, phone numbers (both landline and the cell phone), some stellar client feedbacks and a Facebook page.

And as usual the Facebook provided far more information than Mickey ever needed, including pictures of the guy himself, his handful of staffs, the nice-looking backyard office and the "Owens" residence with its impressive garden.

Holy shit, this guy was loaded.

Mickey decided to smoke before he entered the coffee shop. He needed the time to think how to go about this. When he had found the pay phone right outside the Fifth Third he just marched towards it on impulse, _"I will reward generously"_ repeating in his head. Then next thing he knew, the guy was spewing gratitudes and wanted to meet up with Mickey right away. He was more than willing to come all the way wherever Mickey was. Mickey had to calm the guy down ( _Jesus! Calm your tits, will ya?_ ) and offered to meet him in two hours, because Mickey was _busy_ at the moment and should take care of some business first. (Well, he had to go home and pick up the leatherbound anyway)

— _All right, then where to meet?_

Mickey took a moment to think; he didn't want to be seen with some rich bourgie in their neighborhood but also didn't want to feel out of place up in Northside. Then the guy suggested this shithole of a coffee shop in the West 26th. Clearly he knew his way around in South Lawndale area; Maybe he wasn't as Northside as he seemed.

And now the million-dollar question was: _How much is that Owens guy willing to pay?_

Mickey was momentarily distracted by shadowy reflection of his own face skimming on the window surface. He looked awfully pale. Even paler than usual. Considering the rough couple of months he had it wasn't surprising at all. At least he bathed and shaved; fixed up his hair as how he liked and wore clothes that didn't smell so bad. If that didn't count as presentable, he didn't know what would ever be.

Mickey blew smoke away casting a glance at himself on the window again and then noticed another reflection of someone else there, standing behind him. Their eyes met on the window; the new guy curiously peeping at him. Mickey instantly recognized who that was. 

"Are you not coming in?"

"Smoking now," Mickey slightly tilted his neck with half a smirk, blowing the smoke straight into the guy's face, furtively sizing him up. The guy didn't look much different from the facebook pictures with tousled dark ash blonde hair and tall, well-built frame; Not Kevin Ball huge, but tall enough to be towering over Mickey. An overall good-looking guy who seemed to be in his late twenties to early thirties.

"Okay," For some reason the guy grinned wide, "I'm Ryder Owens. I guess you must be the one I talked on the phone with, you know, about the lost and found?"

Mickey raised his eyebrows as if asking how he knew. Then Owens' chin pointed at Mickey's coat pocket; part of the leatherbound book was poking its head out.

The sneaky guy amusedly chuckled and pulled out his own pack from the small shoulder bag, "Let me have a smoke too before we go in," He lit up the cigarette cupping his hand over the the lighter, taking a deep drag and sighing a relief on the exhale, "And what do you prefer to be called?"

"Just Mickey." 

"Thank you so much, Mickey."

He laid his eyes on the book in Mickey's pocket; back to smiling at Mickey and up at the sky. His eyes twinkled; he seemed happy, genuinely happy to find what he once lost. Then, out of the blue, Mickey registered he had a pair of light brownish eyes, almost golden in hue; Warm and sweet like honey.

 

 

\--------------------------

 

 

Heavy footsteps and occasional grunts, probably from Fiona, came through the thin bathroom door. Judging by the way the footsteps halted in the middle of hallway, she might have entered boy's room and was still lingering about in there. Ian flushed the toilet and stood up. _What is she doing there._ He had already swallowed today's pill quota under her supervision. _What more does she want._

Ian walked out of the bathroom and reluctantly returned to his room to find Fiona sitting on his bed, with the big army duffel bag at her feet on the floor. He instantly recognized the bag and grimaced.

"Kev just dropped by to bring you this bag. He said a Milkovich brother—"

"I know."

"Will you open the bag and check it out, please?"

"I'll do it later. Busy. Gotta get to work."

"Ian," Fiona said with that typical firm, unwavering-Fiona voice, "If you don't do it right now. I will."

Ian just stared at her, "Will do lat—"

"I don't want—"

Their words collided with both of them speaking and pausing at the same time. Ian gestured to Fiona to go ahead.

"Well, I don't want anything unhygienic rotting in our house."

Ian furrowed his brows. What's she talking about?

"I think if Mickey sent your stuff back after all this time, should be some intent—"

For some reason, Ian's heart thumped loudly in his ribcage, "To what?"

"I didn't tell you, but he'd drunk-called me a while back and—let me just say, he was not at all happy with us Gallaghers," Fiona crossed her arms on the chest.

"Yeah? who isn't?" Ian snorted, "Will you name one person who should be happy with us?" He stared into his sister's eyes for a second, "I really have to go now. Gonna be late," He started to get dressed in his winter gears. When he was finished and ready to go out the door, his sister almost screamed.

"You don't know what he might have planted in the bag!"

"Excuse me?" Ian looked back at his sister, dumbfounded.

"What if—, Look, I don't want to think he would stoop that low, I really don't. But you never know, and you can't be too careful with that famil—"

"All right, all right," Ian raised his hands in mock surrender, "I get it."

And he straight away opened it and held the heavy bag upside down.

Lots of folded shirts, jeans, Ian's camo get-up, his army blue uniform, tanktops, sweatpants, underwears, his favorite leather jacket—probably the priciest piece of clothing he ever owned, some books not worth keeping, his notebook of gibberish he just wanted to forget about, a toothbrush, his cologne, deodorant and all bunch of other unneeded crap poured thundering down on the floor. Ian threw the empty bag aside and scattered the big mass of mess around. After making sure nothing suspicious was _planted_ in there, he lifted his head up.

"Are we done now? What did you expect to find, by the way?" Fiona averted her eyes, "A bomb? Dead animal? Human excrement? What?"

"I don't know. Pair of cute cockroaches perhaps?" Fiona shrugged smiling despite herself.

"Well, we already have plenty of them at home, so," Fiona's smile was certainly contagious, "That's the least you should worry abo—"

And then he caught the sight of what Fiona was picking up from beneath the bag. It was a picture of himself; Ian Gallagher was wearing a beanie and flipping a bird to the camera. He snatched it from Fiona's hand and looked closely.

He'd never know how it ended up in Mickey Milkovich's hands, but it was Mandy who took the photo. They were goofing around the main street on a sunny summer day, eating popsicles and window-shopping the shit out of the stores there. Then Mandy managed to pickpocket a cute small Konica in the used camera shop; They laughed their asses off later when they found it was actually a film camera that needed actual film to actually photograph anything at all. He bought her a roll of Kodak and they had so much fun taking pictures of each other that day.

He remembered Mandy had said she was gonna get the film developed when she got the money, but didn't know she really done it until now. Probably first half of the roll ended up useless because neither of them knew how to handle a film camera properly and it took some while to get'em right.

Ian tore his eyes away from the photo. He didn't like, to the point of aversion, anything reminding him of pre-Bipolar breakout Ian Gallagher. He felt so alien to this naive boy that he used to be; it was almost like a completely different person whose past memories he just shared with. And he didn't like the reckless, dangerous, always-feeling-too-much-and-too-little, untreated Bipolar Ian either. That version was the worst because he couldn't even reach some of _his_ memories and emotions.

Ian had started his medication and therapies three days after he came back from his Monica getaway. He had to because he didn't want to be another Monica. He simply didn't want her life.

He wasn't sure he was balanced enough yet, but knew he was going there. He'd started to live with it. He'd accepted being present Ian Gallagher; the often indifferent, mostly detached, trying to be cautious, very much guarded Ian. If his emotions and moods could be out of his hand, he had to learn to ride the tide with smarter navigation. He had to learn to recognize the signals; the signs of things to come.

So, this Ian was developing the habit of monitoring himself in outside perspective. After getting past the initial acclimating stage he grasped the hang of it and, to his surprise, it wasn't too bad albeit exhausting sometimes. It was like watching his own daily goings-on like other person's life; He was starring in his own _Truman Show_ in his own head. And at the same time, this Ian was "encouraged" to focus on his own well-being only and foremost, which was liberating in some degrees. Not that he hadn't acted selfish before but now he was _entitled_ to do that consciously to the max and he was more than fine with it.

As he was wavering between tossing the photo into the trash bin and keeping it in his desk drawer, he found something written at the back. He flipped the picture, read the words. With exasperated groan, he harshly crumpled the photo into a ball and threw it away; It missed the bin and rolled in under the bed.

"I'm already late. Gonna clean this mess when I'm back," Ian stormed out the door leaving bewildered Fiona alone in the room. She got on her knees and reached out under bed for the picture. She straightened the crumpled paper and read what was written on the back:

_"Take care. Please always take good care of yourself._

_Bye."_

 

 

\--------------------------

 

 

Ian stomped down the street fuming. Who the fuck does Mickey think he is? They were over; He still didn't know yet? Ian was doing just fine for past two months not once thinking about him. Why all of a sudden he decided to pop in his life with _Take care of yourself_ bullshit?

It was just a Gallagher thing. Mickey just had become another sacrifice to the Gallagher curse; Why didn't he understand?

Every once in a while, when one of the Gallagher clan can't stand the world they're in and the people they're with anymore, they put the one person, close enough but not blood, on this sacrificial altar; to dump all the pent-up anger, blame, resentment and every other ugly feeling onto and get rid of from their life.

Then suddenly everything becomes more tolerable—more like they're motivated to tolerate, and they can function with each other again as a family, because, who else could they turn to? Family was the only thing they've ever been promised.

This ritual had been done repeatedly, and when it came Ian's turn, naturally Mickey was one to go.

Yeah, he knew he might have hurt Mickey bad; He might have been too harsh; He might have been too crazy; He might have fucked him up good.

But Mickey was a trooper. He should be all right. Mickey was stronger than any other Gallagher sacrifices so far. Mickey should be more than all right. Hell, he might have done Mickey some good breaking it off. He should be grateful even.

Besides it wasn't even their first breakup. They'd already broken it off multiple times, even without counting Mickey going to juvie twice. (what the hell even were they back then? He didn't know anymore) Ian knew what past version of himself felt when he was leaving for the army, and more recently, when Mickey didn’t show up at his first hospital release.

He thought it was all finished between them. What they had was ruined because of his illness and sunken deep into the sea.

But finally he started to come up for air and made a peace with the inevitable breakup until Mickey climbed in his bed with _Sorry I'm late_. And he didn't know what to feel and what to think anymore. He didn't know if he should feel relieved or suffocated. He didn't know if he should feel soothed or irritated. He was just confused, not having the means to negate that weirdly calm post-breakup state of mind, which he never managed to shake out of in the end.

Mickey was too contradicting; Mickey confused him; Mickey was too colorful; Mickey made him irrational; Mickey was too dazzling; Mickey consumed him.

And Mickey loved him too much while he couldn't give back as much.

Ian was a tightrope walker, who just started at the far end of the rope, doing the balancing act between meds and symptoms; sanity and insanity; all the conflicting elements of his life, treading towards the opposite end. How could he go on safely without focusing only on himself.

_Sorry we're over but that's just how it is now._

_Thank you for still caring but I don't want that._

And when he recognized familiar sight of _the old house_ looming over at the end of street, beside the L track, he felt so stupid. So stupid he could cry.

That part of his life had already ended.

He would meet someone who'd be safe to him. Someone who with abundance of extra good in them to spare Ian some and wouldn't need any from him in return. Or he could meet someone who would expect nothing from each other. Nothing to give and nothing to take. Okay, that sounded fair enough.

Ian quickly turned on his heels and hurried towards the station.

He didn't want to be late.

  

 

\--------------------------------

 

  

Owens stroked the surface of the journal softly like the dead son come back to life. He started to skim through it slowly, "So, you said you found—"

"As I said on the phone," Mickey sipped his coffee and put the mug down on the table, "I found it going through my ex's shit," He tried his best to play it down, but the word 'ex' was still so foreign on his lips, let alone relating the term with Ian. Mickey couldn't help but recall, with gut-slicing feeling, Ian's stern face that he last saw, "I was packing up what he left over my place."

Drowning deep in his own agony, Mickey didn't notice the momentary shift in other man's expression, albeit fleeting.

"Um, do you, perhaps, have any remote notion how my journal gotten mixed into his stuff?"

"Not a clue. He didn't tell me."

And then Mickey realized what he had slipped. The brief, awkward silence lingered around their table for a second or two.

"And you can't ask—"

"No."

"Bad breakup?"

Mickey glowered at him.

"Kind of. Yeah," He hissed through his teeth, "And it's none of your business," .

"I'm sorry."

"Don't fucking be," Mickey stared out the window, he would already have bolted off if not for the reward money to collect. He didn't come all the way here to be tricked to leave with nothing.  

"It's just that—," Owens swallowed, "It's my travel diary."

"So?" Mickey blinked a few times.

"Been travelling around for years before I took over the business from my father, and this book's always been with me wherever I went"

Mickey's brows furrowed. _What is this guy getting at?_

"But this time it travelled through Chicago alone without me for months, I'm just curious where it went and what hap—"

"Oh my motherfucking God," Mickey started to laugh out loud, "What are you, eight?"

"Actually, I'm thirty-four," The guy shrugged and Mickey shook his head smiling even wider, still reeling from the initial dork attack.

"Jesus Christ. You are such a—, Unbelievable."

Owens beamed squinting at Mickey as if something dazzled his eyes.

"If you don't mind," He coughed, "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"So, Mickey. How old are you?"

Mickey snorted at the tentative way it was asked, "Twenty in a couple of months."

"Still nineteen," The guy muttered somewhat dejectedly.

"Almost twenty now."

"Still a teenager."

"Not for long."

"Oh God," He put down the coffee cup as if something horrible dawned on him.

"What?"

"I'm having coffee with a teenager."

And this time Mickey had to gasp, "Like, you never before?"

"Well, not in a long while," He seemed to think, "Since—," Then burst into laugh, "Since I was a teenager myself."

Mickey grinned big despite himself, because this dork of a guy certainly had a compelling laugh; You just had to smile back at him constantly, "You always went for the older ones?"

"Yeah," The guy regarded Mickey with that eye-squinting look again, "I mean, I did. Not anymore."

"I can see that."

"How?"

Mickey just shrugged.

"I'm not THAT old," Owens quipped defensively.

"If you say so," Mickey smirked in return.

"Like I said, I'm still thirty four," He sighed anyway, "Jesus, almost twice your age. I could even be your dad, theoretically speaking."

"Anything but," Mickey retorted tersely, "You got a kid?"

"No."

"Then, if one of us here is a dad, I am."

He gawked at “the teenager” like he didn't understand.

"I got a son," Mickey stated matter-of-factly.

"Oh, Didn't you—, You said your ex was—"

"Yeah, I'm nineteen-year-old gay kid who has a son, a wife and a fucking ex-boyfriend. I'm funny like that," Mickey cleared his throat, "Speaking of family to support, I'm not here to chit-chat over coffee, and most certainly, I'm not here because I'm being a good fucking Samaritan or some shit."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Now he was gettting it, "I just got carried away," He blushed a little and produced a white envelope from his messenger bag and placed it on the table right beside Mickey's coffee cup. Mickey contemplated the envelope for a few seconds and picked it up.

"May I?" With the other man's nod, Mickey peered into the envelope. One, two, three..... Ten 20 dollar bills. _Two hundred bucks in cash._

"Thanks," He pushed the envelope inside his pocket.

"Will that be all right?"

"Great."

To be honest, Mickey hadn't expect anything more than 50 bucks.

"Look," When Mickey was trying to zip up his puffy coat, Owens got visibly uneasy and started babbling.

"Yeah?" _If this guy was trying to claim the money back, it should be the biggest mistake of his life_.

"You visited our company facebook, right?"

"What?" Mickey was completely taken aback.

"The number you called; it wasn't the number in _here_ ," Owens opened the front cover to show Mickey the words.

 _Wasn't it? So what?_ Not that Mickey should have memorized it or anything, but he couldn't deny everything about this business being carried out without thinking much ahead and that didn't sit right with him.

"It's my business cell number, not my personal one; 'S not a big deal anyway. I just thought you must have googled me and looked up our facebook," He softly added, "And I thought it was cute."

"For Godssake," Mickey groaned.

"So if you visited our facebook, you'd know," He was now beaming amusedly at Mickey's knuckle tats.

"What? What the fuck am I supposed to know?" Mickey grumbled hoarsely.

"We have an opening for assistant position and still looking."

Mickey had seen the post, but didn't heed any mind to it. They seemed to be hiring a worker—not an assistant. What does the assistant ever "assist" in that field of business anyway? Isn't landscaping all about laboring their asses off with shovels? And speaking of shovel Mickey did know how to use it; even not as a weapon. _How hard could it be?_

Problem was, Yes, Mickey did see the post, but didn't even associate it with himself for one single moment. The only legit job he ever had was working security at Kash and Grab, which he mostly slacked through whole day doing God knows what with....... _No, he's not gonna go there right now._

Anyway he had never imagined himself getting by on a legit job; Milkoviches weren't raised that way. Milkoviches were all for bending the rules.

He kept silent though.

"So, how about—, Would you take the job?"

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to understand Ian and make sense of his actions more while giving Mickey the chance at new life.  
> Hope it's got across. 
> 
> As always, I'm nervous as hell. Any type of response will be appreciated, but please be kind. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language and I've never dared to post a fic here before. But with the disastrous new season premiere and all....... I thought this is the time to do something (if it's just to keep up the number of fics under Shameless category!) for the fandom.
> 
> Please bear with me for any grammatical mistakes and weird word usages. Any type of response will be appreciated.
> 
> And if you don't mind, please let me know if I should continue this or not!!


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